Shackles and Shards: Chapter 01

The Rose of Oblivion is dead—her blood is being shared by all and her flesh has been entrusted to the care of the Duskwardens to be prepared by them for her final consecration to Dana, Goddess of Death, Lady of Sorrow, Matron of Voyages—She Who Dwells and in Darkness. She, the patron goddess of Tsvetokrasa. Much has changed in Tsvetokrasa since the Boy-King was pulled from his throne by the Semejh Cervenrasa revolutionaries. The cold and mountainous realm of Tsvetokrasa has joined the desert nation of Sua and the island nation of Fayn in forgoing kings and crowns; it is now the people who rule Tsvetokrasa. But Dana still governs the people.

Licking a drop of iron-harsh blood mixed with pomegranate wine from the corner of her mouth and passing the silver chalice to the acolyte next to her, Sresca watches as the Duskwardens carry away the glass casket—the Rose of Oblivion peaceful in her death, smiling as serenely as a youth despite being 200 winters old at the time of her passing. In a twist of irony, Dana has always blessed her most loyal with long life. Well, a sort of half-life. One foot in the realm of the living, one in the realm of the dead. Brother Tomo raises his hands above his head and the choir lets out a wail, and then another, following the steady pace of his hands. The requiem rings from the vaunted ceiling, ricochetting off of granite pillars and stained glass, echoing in the ears of every cleric and hopefully reaching the goddess. A mix of somber mourning but also joyous celebration; soon, the Rose of Oblivion will forever be at the side of their goddess, exalted and honored.

The rest of the congregation joins the fray of lamentations as the heavy marble doors to the south open—doors that rarely open—allowing the Duskwardens to exit the sanctum and carry the body down into the depths of the temple. What resides there, only a few know. And Sresca hopes that she will soon be one of those few.
She will be the next Rose of Oblivion. She will live with one foot in the world of the living, and one in the asphodaer—the underworld, the realm of the dead. Soon, Zephyr had told her. Soon, you will know everything. She cannot feel him now, but she knows he is watching. The last note of the requiem dies as the south doors close behind the Duskwardens, and two acolytes open the northern doors to let the rest of the congregation leave. Sresca is in no hurry, but the youngest of the acolytes push past her, not caring to get her permission to leave, all chittering squeals and wide-eyed whispers. This is likely the only time they will ever see those doors open, she thinks to herself with a shrug. It is unlikely that any more of Dana’s Chosen will die during their lifetime.

She considers calling after them, chiding them to slow down so they don’t slip and fall, but Prioress Elizaveta is already grabbing one of them by the hand. They won’t remember her once she is the Rose of Oblivion; Dana will pluck her name from the minds of her siblings, erase her face from their memories. They will know that the new rose once walked among them, but not who that was. These children she has been in charge of, caring for, nurturing… They won’t even recall all the times she tucked them in or bandaged one of their cuts after teaching them how to perform the Liturgy of the Sorrow. Just as no one remembered the prior Rose of Oblivion. Her name has not been preserved anywhere; she will be honored only as a Rose.
The prioress glances over her shoulder and nods to Sresca. Sresca mouths her thanks and waves. Elizaveta knows already, somehow. Sresca can’t recall telling the prioress her plans to undertake the Trials of the Rose if the opportunity arises, but she somehow already knows.

It must be because of who I am… younger sister of the High Priestess. Of course everyone will be wondering if I will put myself forward for the position.
And of course, she is. The Rose of Oblivion. Not the Ross of Loss, not the Rose of Sorrow. The Rose of Oblivion—the only thing she has ever wanted. She cannot remember the first time she leaned of Dana’s Roses—her most loyal servants, her assistants in the asphodaer. Just as the High Priestess is her servant in the world of the living, the Roses serve her in Death. She does not remember that lesson, not the day it happened nor even at what age, but she knows that ever since she learned of the Roses, it has been what she wanted to be.

And here it is. Her 32nd winter is upon her, and here is her chance. The sanctum has emptied considerably, only acolytes on cleaning duty remain, fishing brooms and pales out of hidden closets. Sresca shoves her balled up fists into the pockets of her robes and marches out of the sanctum, her slippered footfalls barely making any sound as she winds her way around the twisting corridors.

Her mind won’t quiet, however. The drafty corridors gust with the winds of deep winter and she quickens her pace—she can already feel the blizzard, smell it in the wind that creeps in the cracks between windows. She needs to tend to the goats before that happens. But first, she must to speak with Yelena.

Yelena will, of course, still be in the Dark Dwellings below the Temple, granting the previous Rose of Oblivion her final rites, whatever that entails. But Sresca can wait. She just needs to be the first one waiting at the door to the High Priestesses office.

She rounds another corner and the office is within sight, as is an older gentleman in a dark navy military coat, a long white beard, and a silver pin over his heart that immediately makes Sresca bristle. She does not recognize the man, but she glares at him as she approaches, the smell of whiskey and smoke wafting from him. “The High Priestess is busy, sir,” she says as she halts before him. “You will have to come back another day.”

The man staggers back, his face pale as he stares at her as if he has seen a ghost. “Do I know you?”

“I am a daughter of death; everyone knows me.” She pulls her hands out of her pockets and clasps them in front of her. “The High Priestess is busy. I can leave a message with her, if you would like, sir.”

She hates having to call him sir. The man wears the silver fox pin once worn by the lords of the Great Houses of Tsvetokrasa—the nobility; the thieves who stole from the people to enrich themselves. Does this man not know that Lady Dana stood against them? She revoked Her divine blessing and struck down the royal and noble houses; She no longer cared for the way these greedy bastards took advantage of Her largesse. How dare this man wear that symbol in Her house?
“I am sorry, my lady. I mean no offense, it is just that you bear a striking resemblance to someone I was once.” The man pauses, glancing away from her as he considers his words. “Someone I was once well acquainted with. Did you live in Krylla previously?”

“No, sir. I have never even been there.”

He raises an eyebrow, skepticism written plainly on his brow. “Very well. I shall return later.”

“Would you at least provide your name and when we can expect you?”

“No, that will not be necessary. Thank you, Sister Kyra.”

Sresca shivers, something stirring in her chest. “There is no Sister here by that name, sir. I am sorry.”

“I apologize. She was someone who was dear to me, and I lost her. I suppose I see her ghost everywhere now. Good day.” He searches her face again and then shakes his head, raising his hand to his brow as if in salute, turns on his heel, and walks away.

She watches him go, not daring to open the office door despite the key in her pocket. Kyra? Where had she heard that name before? Wasn’t it the name of the former princess? Who would name their child that now?

Her eyes are still fixed on the far end of the empty corridor, staring at the spot where he disappeared as he turned a corner, when a young acolyte grabs her hand.

Sister Sresca?”

She jumps, letting out a yelp before heat creeps into her cheeks as she silently chides herself. Am I always going to be so easily startled?

The child’s eyes are wide, both her hands now pulled back against her chest. “Oh, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Did you get lost?” She doesn’t recognize this acolyte, but she eerily has the same dark brown eyes and nearly-white hair as Sresca. Her nose has the same slight upward tilt to it, but her cheeks are hollow as if she has not eaten in days and…

“Are you waiting for me?” The voice of her sister carries down the corridor and Sresca spins around to see the High Priestess coming toward her.

“Yes, one moment…” She glances back over her shoulder towards the acolyte. But the girl is gone, vanished. She must have run off again…

Her sister is wearing the full veil and shroud of her station, shielding her face from the world—the face of Death: a featureless black void. Sresca hasn’t seen her sister’s face in years, not since High Priestess Marija was called to Dana’s side and Yelena took her place. That is what her sister had always wanted—the anonymity of the High Priestess.

The high priestess pulls the key from her pocket and unlocks the office without any further preamble, waving Sresca inside and closing the door quickly behind them. The office is unadorned—many of the great treasures and holy relics that once lived in here behind glass cases have been moved into corridors. Yelena had said that the treasures of the goddess were for all to marvel, not just the High Priestess. The plush, ornate armchair that High Priestess Marija had always kept well polished and fluffed now sat in the nursery, covered in spit-up and spilled milk. Yelena instead used a plain wooden chair plucked from the kitchens with a simple pillow.

Sresca takes the seat on the opposite side of the desk, but her sister does not sit down. Instead, she throws open the window—more stained glass; purple-pink roses wilting over snow-covered mountains at dusk. The howling wind fills the small office, nearly putting out the fire.

“You will be leaving,” the High Priestess says. The dark clouds hang low in the sky, ominous and threatening. She continues to stare out at the gathering darkness—it’s noon, and yet. “You want to undertake the trial and leave.”

“It’s not leaving, you know it’s not.”

Her sister turns back toward her, hands clasped behind her back. “That’s not what I mean. You’ve been my side since…”

“Since I was born, I know.”

Her sister shakes her head, reaching up to the silver circlet and plucking it off her head and pulling off her shroud in one quick moment. “Forgive me, Dana. I need to see my sister one more time… Before she is no longer my sister.”

Not for the first time, Sresca is struck by how many facial features she and her sister share. They aren’t twins, but they are most certainly sisters. The same brown eyes, the same pale hair, the same narrow jaw and high cheekbones, and the same upturned nose. But Yelena has no dimples when she smiles, and Sresca has a smaller forehead.

“I will always be your sister. No matter what. Not even the gods can change that,” Sresca says as her sister envelops her in her embrace. “Do you grant your permission? For me to undertake the Trials of the Rose?”

“I cannot stop you. Anyone else I could forbid—” She says as she pulls away, gripping Sresca’s hands in her own and stepping back. “But I have never been able to say no to you—not since the day we met.”

“You mean the day I was born?”

Yelena laughs, shaking her head. “Even here? Even when we are alone?”
Sresca raises an eyebrow, frowning at her sister, unsure of what she meant.
“Nevermind. Yes, you have permission to undertake the trials. But you do know the consequences if you fail, right?”

“Our Lady will kill me, and I shall enter the asphodaer not as one of her servants but as any other person.” A fate worse than death.

“Exactly.”

The wind gusts more fiercely, and this time, the fire in the hearth is extinguished.

You don’t remember that night. And I am glad you don’t. But I do. I only watched, only observed. I was not strong enough yet to do anything more than that. But maybe you could have. Maybe you could have protected her that night.

The cold was unbearable. The wind whistled around the buildings, the snow pelting her face as she trudged around another corner, arms crossed over her chest. Her stomach lurched again as she fought to keep the little food she had managed to pull from the trash pile in my belly. She couldn’t go home yet. Not yet. Not when she had not yet earned enough money to make Father sweet and Mother kind. But the sun had set, and the only customers now were the kinds that children shouldn’t deal with.

She leaned against the wall to the tavern, wondering if she would be making the wrong choice if she went inside at this hour. Shaking her head, she let herself sink to the ground, flinching as the snow on the gravel walkway instantly melted and soaked the back of her skirts. She held out a hand, focusing on the tingling of her exposed fingers. She let it consume her—the pinpricks becoming warmth as a small, purple fire welled in her hand.

She admired it, not caring if anyone saw her. Why would she care? She was just a child. Her fifth birthday was ahead of her, she didn’t care about adult things like laws and rules. Maybe, if I had been stronger, I could have warned her. That night was heartbreaking, for all that nothing actually happened.

“Young miss! What are you doing?” The voice of the woman was out of place outside of the tavern, it belonged in a school room, it belonged to the daylight and the living. Harsh, scolding. Disappointed.

The child rose to her feet, the fire flickering out, the warmth dissipating before she could even enjoy it. But she did not let her fear or her disappointment show. No, like all of us, she learned to hide her feelings. “I am sorry ma’am, I was just resting my feet.”

“No! Not that! The magic, girl. The magic. Don’t you know you can’t do that?”
“I wasn’t hurting no one, ma’am. I was just cold, that’s all.”

“I’m sure you were, but don’t you know only nobles are supposed to have it? You get caught doing it and…” The woman shook her head. “Here,” she says, taking off her gloves and pressing them into the child’s hand. “Do you need me to walk you home? Go on, put them on. They are yours now. Where do you live?”

The child clenched the woman’s fingers, the threadbare gloves and the woman’s warmth at least making up a little for her loss of fire. She didn’t want to go home. Not to Father, who would ask her why she was coming home empty handed. Not to Mother, who would smack her before… before she did worse.

But the woman was already leading the child out of the alley, down the streets quickly filling with snow. She might have had to go home, regardless. With how quick the snow was coming down that night, she might not have made it home if she waiting much longer.

But the whole way home her thoughts kept circling to what the woman said about who can do magic. Only nobles. Does that mean only nobles are meant to have magic? If only nobles have it, and she can use it, does that mean she is a noble? But her parents are commoners. What if they are disgraced nobles?

“Ma’am,” the child asks, looking up at the woman, her long straw-blond hair shining golden in the light of both moons. The woman, frightening her only a moment ago, now looked like a potential savior. I wish I could have told the child not to get her hopes up. “If only nobles can do magic, does that mean I am a noble? Can I go to the palace and live there?”

The woman’s lips curled into a sneer. “No, they want to believe they are special. They want to think they have a monopoly on power. But they don’t. They just want their laws to re-write reality. Anyone has the ability, just not the right.”

The young child’s hopes were dashed. For a few wonderful moments she had dreamed up so many situations. The most appealing one: her parents stole her. She was a lost noble stolen away by ungrateful and greedy commoners. Soon, she would be found. Soon she would be taken back to her real parents—parents that loved her, missed her, and…

She tried to stop the tears in her eyes. It’s no good crying in the cold.

“Now don’t cry. Just be careful. I’m not going to turn you in. Let’s just get you home, yes?”

The woman escorted the child the rest of the way, trying to cheer her up. She did a remarkable job, but it did not work. All the child could think of was how awful home was. If I was stronger… I would have found a way to make it easier for her. If you were stronger, what would you have done?

“Are you sure you will be fine alone? Usually an observer must remain present.” The prioress averts her eyes as Sresca unties the ribbons on the sleeves of her robe and lets them drop to the floor.

“Yes, I need to do this alone. I can feel it. The goddess is telling me I must be here on my own.”

“I will be informing the High Priestess of this breech in protocal,” Elizaveta says.
“Of course, I would expect nothing less. Thank you.” Sresca undoes the lacing at her back and lets the shift and skirt slide down her naked body and pile on the floor. She steps out of it as Elizaveta closes the door to the room, plunging it back into quiet darkness. She shivers. She’s lived her whole life in Tsvetokrasa. She’s lived most of her life within these marble and stone walls, this ancient fortress built centuries ago to honor the goddess of death. She should be used to the cold. She should be used to the draft that never goes away. She needs to push it aside, she needs to focus—she needs to reflect.

One slop step at a time, she makes her way in the dark toward the pool. She’s heard rumor that this water was once a natural pond and the ancient followers of Dana built the castle around it, preserving it in this marble monument. It smells just as fresh as the spring that runs across the temple grounds, so there may be some truth to that. At some point, someone added stairs, allowing Dana’s faithful to slowly immerse themselves, rather than plunging in. She sticks a toe in, reflexively pulling back when she feels how cold the water is.

But that’s the point. She must let the cold make her numb. Numb to where she can do nothing but reflect on her own thoughts, her own goals.

Do you want me to warm it up? Zephyr asks.

You can do that?

I can try.

She shakes her head. No. That would be dishonest. The strange winged creature that she meets only her dreams but hears at every hour might be a friend, a companion, but he cannot assist her in her trials, not even in her preparations for them. “No, I appreciate it. But save it for the next bathing day, please.”
Alright, he says. In her mind’s eye, she sees the odd serpentine creature-shimmering opalescent scales, tufted tail, and feathered wings—stretch out in a bright meadow before resting its head in a field of flowers, its forked tongue tasting the air.

She dips a single toe into the cold water, her breath hitching as a chill runs down her spine. She hates the cold. She’s lived in Tsvetokrasa, the chilly north of Ahnlisen, beyond the towering mountain range in the land of ice and snow. She sets her foot on the first step, trying not to flinch as the near-frozen water wraps around her ankle.

Another step and both feet are submerged. Little by little, she crawls into the reflecting pool until she is in up to her neck. Taking a deep breath, she allows herself to sink to the bottom, her long pale hair winding itself around her neck and shoulders as she lets the freezing water wash away any feeling.

Wash away all feelings. Her anxiety, her fear, her worry. All that is left is the water.
And then there is more.

She is here. Sresca knows the goddess by now, has felt Her presence multiple times—fleeting; a whisper in her ear or wind on her neck; a pressure from all sides. For so many centuries, the gods have kept their distance. But sometime in late 3017 AT, priests and clerics began claiming that their gods visited them in their dreams. Sresca was only an toddler at that point, and there was much going on. The monarchy of Fayn had fallen, and Tsvetokrasa was going through its own turbulent issues with the succession. And then in late 3031 AT, even more people claimed to have seen the gods, not just the clergy.

But 3031 AT was also not a time when Sresca was too cognizant of the world around her. In 3031 AT, a series of strange disasters struck Sua. Tsvetokrasa has long relied on certain imports of materials and foods from Sua to survive their long and harsh winters. Those disasters caused a marked decrease in those materials, and with resources so scarce during the winter of 3032 AT—one of the harshest winters on record—the Semejh Cervenrasa had everything they needed to make their dream a reality; Tsvetokrasa became the third nation in Ahnlisen to send their monarchs to their death. The fall of monarchs… the presence of gods… the birth of magic—even if the new republic has banned its practice in Tsvetokrasa, entire universities are springing up dedicated to this new art. So much change, so much uncertainty.

Sresca twirls in the water, trying to shake these thoughts, focus only on the presence of her goddess. She is lucky to live in such a time that the gods once more walk in the lands of mortals, but she does not just want to meet Dana here, she wants to join Dana in the asphodaer.

But the thoughts keep weighing her down, her movement in the water slow. The darkness is supposed to calm her, silence her thoughts, steady her heart. And instead all she can think of is the material world… memories of times long ago, like the quaint house she can only barely remember living in before her parents died. Merchants caught in a bad storm on the way down the coast to Qaewi. They had promised her and Yelena they would bring back sweet-roasted beans that they would crush into a powder and add to their milk. But a strong wind must have blown them off course…

Yelena refuses to speak of them. She is only a year older than Sresca, but surely she has some memories? Some moments she could share… But Sresca has no memories of them, not distinct ones. Impressions, feelings… like paintings that haven’t been finished, details still missing. Without other family, the two sisters found themselves here, at the Temple of Dana.

You will serve me. The voice of the Goddess ringing in her head. A command. An order. A plea. Is is the one clear memory Sresca has of the day they arrived here. A song of darkness playing in her head, beckoning her into the dusk.

The song echos again in her head—just a thread of it, just a few notes, but she grasps onto them and tugs herself toward it. This is what she needs to do; whatever she needs to find her lies at the end of this thread. She pulls herself along it like a rope, the water no longer cold now that her body has adjusted.

The darkness opens up into a strange space, somehow she can see, but there is no light source. It’s as if this room she is now in has been illuminated by a new moon. She does not question how she has managed to leave the pool and finds herself dry and in this ancient and monumental space.

Tall pillars, carved out of ancient stone, cracked marble flooring with gold and silver mosaics with purple roses scattered across it. She spun around to take it in, seeing that each direction held another door—dark wood with strange etchings.
But etchings she can read nonetheless. She tentatively approaches one, running her fingers along the strange characters.

There exists inside every person a small infinity.

It can be sought, explored, and harnessed.

This infinity—this inner darkness—is a gift.

Child of Death, go forth and investigate.

For that is how you will find Me.

“A gift…” Sresca repeats, pulling her hand away from the first door. She spins around, glancing at all the other doors. There are nine in total. All seem to have the same inscription on them.

This is not an official part of her trial, but she somehow knows she has no hope of passing them if she cannot explore all of these doors—if she cannot explore all of herself, her being, her own mind, even the darkest corners she keeps hidden from herself.

She squares her shoulders and takes a breath, briefly wondering if her body is still underwater, and then pulls on the handle.

There is nothing but void on the other side, a misty and murky miasma dark as a double new moon night. She takes a tentative step into the gloom, immediately feeling the Goddess’s breath on her back, her comforting and cold embrace. But as Sresca runs through the corridors, through herself, she crashes into stone walls with gold mortar. Door after door—nothing.

Dread in her stomach and terror in her heart, she presses her ear to the cold barrier and hears a scream from the other side. Why is my infinity partitioned?
“Stay away!” The voice—her voice—shrieks from beyond the stone barrier.

“Why?” she asks, beating her palms against the stone.

She gets no answer.

“I am going to fail,” she says, leaning back against his warm scales. He is nearly wrapped around her, his opalescent scales shimmering purple-pink in the hot sunlight. She has no clue how he manages to transport her to his domain, but she is grateful for it. The meadow is full of flowers, full of green planets and lush grass. She basks in the heat of both Zephyr and the sun. She loves her Goddess, but sometimes she cannot help but wonder if the followers of Yessenia always feel this heat. It makes sense that the people of Sua worship Yessenia, for their land of desert and heat is always blessed by Yessenia’s sun, and she has even heard rumors that Yessenia only grants the power of Sight to her children in that harsh nation.
She used to asked Zephyr multiple times if his warm meadow is in Sua, for how else would there be so much sun? He would only ever laugh at this question, however. When her history and geography lessons in the Temple finally taught her what kind of desert Sua is and how that kind of desert rarely has foilage, she realized her mistake.

She might not have the youthful flights of fancy anymore, but that didn’t mean she had ever stopped wondering how this strange creature only she could hear could transport her across the world. His meadow could not possibly exist in Tsvetokrasa, let alone the mountainous terrain around Sekristall.

“Your trial is almost upon you,” he says, his tufted tail swishing back and forth like the tails of the malkins that hang around the kitchens. “And yet you still fear you are not ready.”

Sresca runs a hand down her face. “No, I don’t think I am.”

“Tell me more.” Gentle, inquisitive. Not demanding. Not like Elizaveta when she had plucked Sresca, half frozen, out of the reflecting pool. Not like any of the Siblings that came to treat her sickness as her body fought to regain warmth. They thought she was unconcious, and she heard every disparaging remark, all the ways in which none of them believed she could do it.

She can’t even keep her rooms tidy, have you seen them? Always a disaster!
She’s so forgetful, I guess she would make a good Rose of Oblivion by that definition, but can such an important task be left to someone who can’t even to show up for her duties on time.

She’s always late for everything. I have to stay well past my alloted time in the nursery because I just know she’s going to race in nearly an hour late and give some sort of apology all out of breath. But is she really sorry if she keeps doing it every day?

She is always spacing out. I have to repeat myself so many times before she finally blinks as if she’s just noticed I’m there and asks me what is going on! Honestly, she’s over 30 winters and she doesn’t act any older than an acolyte.
“They don’t understand, they only see your flaws.”

Sresca rolls her eyes. “It’s not just that,” she says, used to her strange companions ability to read her thoughts. “It’s the weird sanctum I found myself in… with the doors. The doors to nowhere.”

“You weren’t ready yet.”

“Ready for what? And if I’m not ready now, I never will be! I do not have time. Yelena told me that my trial will be in three weeks, the day before the equinox. I don’t have time to try many more times!”

Her heart races; chest tightening, tears forming behind her eyes. Everything she’s worked for… if she fails, she doesn’t get a second chance. She’s struggled so hard to just be like everyone else. “How do they do it? How does everyone else live like this? All the mess and confusion? All the chaos? How do they manage it? They all make it look so easy, as if they aren’t even dealing with it?”

She balls her hands into fists, feeling like the child her Siblings have accused her of being.

“Take a deep breath,” he says. Not condescending. Not annoyed. “Remember the trick I taught you? In through your nose…”

She remembers. She knows how to bring herself back, how to ground herself int he present. But she doesn’t want to. Not here, not where it’s safe to scream. She just wants to yell, but she has no idea why. A tiny voice in her head keeps repeating It’s not fair, it’s not fair. And she wants to join it, she wants to scream about how unfair everything else—an explosion of emotion to rival that of some of the most volatile acolytes. Like someone else was sliding into her skin, morphing her, altering her—someone else, but also not someone else. She couldn’t explain it. “It’s not fair!”

“It’s not, it’s not fair at all,” Zephyr says. But Sresca blinks, wiping away her tears and looking up at the face of her companion. His faceted eyes stare back to her, but tinged a darker blue than normal. And his voice—it’s not normal. It’s not his normal, even timbre, not his melodic and sonorous voice that has brought her comfort for as long as she can remember. “It’s not fair. And that is why I must teach you magic.”

He’s not making any sense.

“You and I, we shall get revenge for everything that was done to us. Just learn from me, follow my instructions, and we shall unleash our rage and strike down our enemies.”

“Magic? Revenge? Enemies? Zephyr, what is wrong with you?”

“What do you mean?” His eyes flicker back to their purple-blue, and he is once again his calm self.

“You were just talking about… Magic…”

He tilts his head to the side, and she gets one of the rare glimpses into his own mind. He doesn’t know what she is talking about. Did I drift off to sleep and imagine that? Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve imagined something happening, or remembered something that couldn’t have happened.

“Magic? Interesting. But now that you mention it, I do want to teach you shadow magic. I believe it will be helpful.”

“How? With the trial?”

“Yes, and after, too. You will need it. I should have taught you a long time ago. But you are still too worn tonight. Tomorrow.”

“But it is illegal. Nobles were allowed to use it before the Storm, but the Electrarchs have banned it. I was never noble, so I wouldn’t even have it anyway.”

“Are there any representatives from the government here in this meadow? I see none. Who would report you? And once you are the Rose of Oblivion? You will be above the law.”

Do you remember all the times we stared up at the palace? All the times we would strategically pick a street so that we would have the palace within sight? Do you remember all the nights we would lean back against the wall, forget what we were supposed to be doing, and just stare into each window, trying to catch a glimpse of one of the inhabitants? That’s where Neshka went… whenever that would happen. That’s where she went the first time it happened, and every time after.

She took off the gloves the kind woman had given her a few weeks prior, rubbing her tiny hands together and breathing into them. The worst of winter was over, but spring in Tsvetokrasa is still full of snow and cold, just not as much wind or storms. She put her gloves in her pockets and pulled out her pouch, untying the drawstrings with her stubby fingers and pulling it open. There was nothing inside of it. She had spent the morning chasing a dog around the streets, and the afternoon playing with another child before that child’s parent had scolded her, calling her a rat.

But it was going to be sundown, soon. And she was hungry. And if she didn’t come home with money, well…

She held open the pouch, keeping one eye on the glittering palace with golden minarets and finials. She thanked the people who stopped to drop a coin or two into the pouch, and she evaded questions about her parents when any asked. She gaped at the tall and muscular horses that stomped past, carriages in tow, and she tried to keep her mouth closed when the nobles inside those carriages waved at her.

But that particular night, she learned a painful lesson. There are ways to get more than a few coins. Dancing, her father had called it when he did it with her the first time, just after her third birthday. It had hurt a lot, and he had held her mouth closed so she wouldn’t scream, calling it their secret—something only real daddies do with their daughters.

That night, cold, hungry, and afraid to go home with a bag that was too empty, she learned she could dance with the men she encountered while begging and they would fill her pouch overflowing.

She danced, imagining the whole time that she was in the palace; warm, welcomed, fed, wrapped in furs and silk—wanted and loved.

I understand if you don’t remember. But I do. I remember everything that Neshka forgot. I remember everything you forgot. And when you remember, maybe we can plot our revenge.

Her rooms are a mess. As an ordained priestess and cleric, she has a set of rooms for her comfort and private prayer. It is nothing grand—a bedroom, a sitting room, an office, and a small refectory for if she does not want to join the entire congregation in the main refectory for meals. She always intends to find a system or a schedule to somehow keep these rooms clean. To keep the clean clothes from just staying in a bundle on her sofa after she brings them back from the laundry, to keep the dirty clothes actually in her basket instead of leaving them strewn across her room when she takes them off at the end of the day. She always promises herself she will tidy up her desk, take the mugs of tea to the kitchens and wash them after she is done rather then letting them pile up on her windowsill… But then it’s nearly midnight, and she is tired, and her head feels like its full of fog and she just wants to lay down and cry.

She never knows why she wants to cry. But it always feels like she has a reason to cry, like something has happened that day that would warrant screaming into her pillows and banging her fists on her bed. But she can never think of anything.
She makes a half hearted attempt at straightening up her desk, and puts her dirty robes in the basket. Good enough, right? Better than nothing.

She whispers her prayers at her small altar, running her fingers across the pearls of her [placeholder - rosary synonym] and recites the Liturgy of the Rose, thanking her Goddess for another day of life spent preparing for Death.

Exhausted, she crawls into bed and hopes she is not plagued by nightmares—half-forgotten by the time she wakes up, but far too real while she asleep, always bordering on the far edge of a true memory.

Her eyes slip close, and when she opens them again, the Goddess stands before her.

Her hair is brown, though. Not the silver-white of her paintings. And hands are tipped with claws, like a kattu. Something about her feels off. “My child, come here.” She holds out her hand, and tentatively, Sresca takes it. She steps forward to the edge of the cliff, the wind nearly knocking her over.

At the bottom of the cliff is a vast expanse of ocean, but beyond it, land. Three large islands. “I’ve seen those before…” She says as she squints at the distant islands. Multiple times, she’s dreamed of this place. But she’s always been alone.
“I know you have, child of my heart. I’ve been showing this place to you. Watch…” The Goddess points, and Zephyr spirals out of the clouds before opening his mouth and spewing fire upon the islands. “There is much I must tell you, much I must show you. The time is coming. Meet me here. Soon.”

Before Sresca can ask the Goddess where “here,” is, there is a knock on her door, startling her back to the real world.

She takes a deep breath, remembering what Zephyr has told her. Name five things she can see.

Yelena.

The southern doors of the sanctum.

The altar.

The stained glass windows.

The—

“You are ready, Sister Sresca?” Her sister says. No, not her sister. The High Priestess. Four things you can hear… The birds outside, the patter of people walking in the corridor outside the sanctum, the bells striking the—

“Sister Sresca?” The High Priestess clears her throat.

Sresca straightens, throwing her shoulders back and nodding. “I am ready, High Priestess.”

Her sister has her veil, obscuring her face, but Sresca knows her sister is crying beneath it, despite her words never breaking.

“High Priestess! Forgive me!” The northern doors are thrown open and the prioress races in. “I am sorry, he said he had to see her. He said he cannot wait. I tried to—”

Sresca looks past Elizaveta at the man slowly striding into the sanctum. He is not ordained, he is not sworn—the pledged to the Goddess. He has no business, no right, to be in here! And yet he is walking in as if he owns the place.

That is when Sresca recognizes the man—the one who had confronted her a month ago, right after the service for the Rose of Oblivion. The one who called her Kyra, the one who swore he knew her.

“There you are, little sparrow.” He halts right in front of her. “I have want of you.”
“You cannot take her. She is a priestess of Dana, she is about to be consecrated to Her, to serve as a vassel.” Yelena says, yet when she speaks, her voice takes on a slight change. Sresca can’t place her finger on it, but her sister is not speaking as she normally does.

“You said I could have my choice of clerics for my province. Our priestess passed away. The winter is harsh and we have no one to do burials. I want this priestess.”
“That is where I must deny you, Mr. Volkov. She is no longer a priestess, she will be living in seclusion with sacred and secret duties soon,” the High Priestess says, her tone imperious, almost regal—full of authority.

Sresca struggles to remember her history lessons from over a decade ago, the name Volkov nudging at her. Agapov, Cheskov, Danalov, Hohenov, Khornov, Makarov, and Sekolov… Yes, the Great Houses of Tsvetokrasa. The former high nobility. The man before her still wore his Order of the Silver Fox pin, but he isn’t just a former baron or viscount, he is likely a former grand duke. One that clearly hasn’t learned that the new Tsvetokrasa does not tolerate men who make demands and throw tantrums when they do not get their way.

“She was just a priestess when I first saw her, and it appears she is still just a priestess right now. She shall be coming back with me.”

“I am going nowhere,” Sresca says. “You only want me because I remind you of someone, and holding onto people from your past like that is not the way of Dana. You must let go of your lost ‘Kyra’ if you want Dana’s blessing. Accept your loss, accept your sorrow.”

“If you would like, Mr. Volkov, we can help you forget your lost sweetheart.” The High Priestess holds out her hands, shimmering slightly with dark purple flames. Magic is forbidden, but what the High Priestess has is divine power, the power to make Volkov forget all about his loved one—sear her from his mind and memory.
He takes a halting step backward, holding up his hands in surrender. “Very well. I see you are not willing to negotiate. I will come back another day and have my pick, then. He tips his hat toward Sresca. “Good luck, princess.”

Elizaveta escorts him out, apologizing again to Yelena for being unable to contain the man. Once the northern doors are once again securely closed, Yelena swears under her breath.

“What was that about?”

“He’s plotting something.”

“What do you mean?”

“He is always plotting something. Every time he comes here asking for a priestess… I don’t trust him. I have sent four priestesses—young ones—to his province over the last ten years. They’ve all died. Dana loves her children, but she does not call them back to her needlessly.”

“Are you going to send another priestess?”

“Do not worry about it; you have your trial today. That must be your focus.”

“Do you know who this Kyra is?”

“Volkov was in talks with the king to marry the king’s sister before the Storm.”
“He told me I looked like her…”

“He’s haunted by ghosts. He should have let me ease his loss. But that is not be your concern. Focus, Sresca. Focus.”

“He thought I was the princess? But she’s dead…” Something tugs at her, and a flash of a dream floods her mind. Silk skirts, satin sleeves, tight corsets lined with fur… women fetching jewels and placing them about her neck and tying them into her hair… She blinks and it is gone. A dream she once had. One of the many strange dreams about lives she never could have lived.

Yelena grabs her shoulders. “Yes. She is. But I am here. You are here. We are both here. We are safe and home. And if we want to remain safe, here we must stay. I am safe with my shroud, and you shall be safe Where the Dark Dwells. Focus.”

Clear your mind, Zephyr whispered. Let go of everything else. What can you smell? What can you hear? Do not worry about the past—it is gone, it is dead.

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. The sage and lavender inscence, the faint scent of pine that is used to clean and polish the wood pews in the sanctum, the crisp smell of snow on the wind creeping through the cracks in the windows…
“Good,” her sister says. “Good. Focus. And we will descend.”

The High Priestess produces a long velvet veil and drapes it over Sresca’s head, securing it with a circlet. The Shroud of Darkness worn by the High Priestess is made of chiffon and lace; she can see out of it, but none can see in. But the shadow that Sresca now finds herself in is total and complete; there is no sheer fabric here—just a dark as deep as dusk.

Without another word, her sister grabs her hands and carefully leads her down the stairs. Sresca places a hand against the stone wall, hoping she doesn’t lose her balance with each step. This is what I want, she tells herself. This is all I have ever wanted.

Her sister squeezes her hand, a signal Sresca intuitively knows to mean they have reached the bottom. The front of her veil is lifted and thrown back, revealing the statue of the Goddess, standing tall, regal, proud—a knife in each hand, and a crown of swords on her head—purple opals for eyes, and a pile of roses at her feet. Lethal and devastatingly beautiful. But Sresca notices details in this statue she has never seen before. This version of her goddess has three tails. She’s never seen a visage of the Goddess with even one tail, let alone three. But this is the place of secrets—this is the Goddess as she truly is, without any gaes to make her more acceptable to mortals. Before the goddess is a bowl made of polished silver, and beside it, a knife.

“You may come back when the trials are completed, or not at all.” And then her sister is gone—not even waiting for Sresca to say goodbye.

Well, there is no need. She will be successful. She has no idea what lies before her, but she knows she will succeed. She picks up the knife and runs it across her wrist. “Mother Death, Lady of Sorrow, Bringer of Darkness, grant me strength…”
The blood hits the bowl and the smell of lavender fills the air.

The darkness lifts and she’s in the infirmary.

The wound on her wrist had already healed by the time she woke up in the infirmary, but she wears a bandage around it anyway; a mark of her failure. She picks at it as the breeze laced with the scent of too many flowers rustles her hair. “I failed,” she says, not for the first time.

“All will be well,” Zephyr replies, not stirring from the rock he is basking on.
“Why am I alive, though? I do not remember anything. I offered my blood and then… Then I was in the infirmary. Yelena and Elizaveta will say nothing to me about it. Not even how they found me… Why did I not die? I failed, I failed!”

Zephyr wraps his tail around Sresca’s shoulders, squeezing gently. “There is a reason, I am sure of it. There must be something more for you to do.”

“There is nothing more than being Dana’s servant. It is the highest honor any mortal can aspire to. Nothing greater exists. I wish I knew what happened… How I failed… What I did wrong…”

“It would not change anything,” he says. “If you knew, what use would it be? You cannot change what happened.”

“But if I tried again…”

“Are you allowed to try again?”

“I do not know. I do not think so, because any who have failed have been killed, but here I am… alive… I wish she had killed me! I wish she had struck me down. I wish I was dead!”

“Sresca, love… We will get through this. Can you take a breath for me, please?” Zephyr unfurls his coils and rearranges himself to embrace the sobbing priestess. “Even, steady breaths. I know it seems like the end of the world, but I promise it isn’t.”

“What am I going to do? Yelena says there is no reason for me to leave the Temple, I can continue to be a priestess, I can continue my job in the nursery and as an instructor for the acolytes, I can continue to care for my goats… But what will everyone else think? I failed. I wasn’t good enough for Dana…”

“You are good enough, Sresca. She would have ended your life if you weren’t.”

“No, this is worse. Being alive, knowing I failed… This is worse. This is worse.”
A knock rings through the meadow and when Sresca looks over her shoulder, the door to her rooms is creaking open, the meadow giving way to her small office. Kiut Tshu sticks her head inside, her ears flat against her head. “Sresca?”

“Oh.” She sighs, she chill returning to her bones. “Are you here to end me? Finally? Will you at least make it quick?”

Kiut Tshu is not a normal cleric; she belongs to Dana’s Mercy. Trained not in leading the dead into the asphodaer, but guiding the living to Death. Trained in thousands of means of execution, from poison to blade. If the priestesses are Dana’s servants, the Mercy are her knights—ensuring none can cheat her, none can break the cycle of life and death.

“I am not here to kill you. I came to check on you.”

“Don’t you have a job you should be done? Why are you even here?”

“My charge is in Sekristall. I slipped away when I heard…”

“So even people outside of the Temple know of my failure?”

“Failure? No. I heard you were ill. Oh, Sresca, my love.”

“No! Not ‘your love.’ Not anymore. Not again. You ended it, you do not get to start it again!”

“That’s not what I—”

“Get out. Just go away. I don’t want to see you.”

The Mercy slips back out, as silent as dusk. So completely and totally gone that Sresca could believe that she merely imagined her former lover’s presence.

She closes her eyes, hoping that when she opens them again, she will be back in the meadow, back with Zephyr, back in that tranquil paradise where she has no worries and no shame.

But when she does, she is still alone. Still trapped in the walls of the Temple whose Goddess rejected her. An early spring rain patters against the windows.